Of Nightmares and Memories
by cheride
Summary: Gratitude is the heart's memory, so say the French. But what does Mark say?


_Of Nightmares and Memories- Cheride_

_Rating: PG_

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators. _

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A/N: The first two segments of this story are set as epilogues following aired episodes: Rolling Thunder and Did You See the One That Got Away?. I use them only as a backdrop; it's not particularly important that you know or remember the actual ep. And, just to be clear, the character of Eric Goodburn (who appears in name only) doesn't belong to me, either. 

Also, I offer up sincere thanks to L.M. Lewis, for beta work above and beyond the call of duty. She points out what works and what doesn't, and-as in this case-offers simple suggestions that lead to so much more.

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_**One year ago…**_

Milton Hardcastle released a small breath he hadn't even known he was holding. Letting the kid make the drive back from Vegas alone had been something of a calculated gamble, and he was relieved to see the red sports car sitting in the drive at Gull's Way. He pulled the pickup to a stop and climbed out, heading immediately for the gatehouse.

He almost hesitated at the door, but it only took about two seconds to think the words, _my house_, and then he walked in without knocking. On the staircase, Mark McCormick turned briefly to look in his direction, and Hardcastle was certain he saw a flash of anger before the young man continued up toward the sleeping area.

"It's a little early for bed check," McCormick muttered. He dropped the box he was carrying onto the floor, then started back down the stairs.

Hardcastle forced himself not to grin, though in the last three days he had already discovered that McCormick's sarcastic nature amused the hell out of him. But he answered firmly, "This isn't a bed check, kid, but I'm glad you remember that you're bunkin' in my joint now." He ignored the sigh from the other man, and gestured toward two other small boxes sitting at the foot of the stairs. "So you're gettin' settled in?"

"Yeah, I stopped by my apartment and picked up some stuff. It'll just take a few more trips this weekend to get the rest of it." He grinned suddenly. "Once I give up my place, Hardcase, you're kinda stuck with me. So if you're plannin' on trading me in, you should tell me now."

This time, Hardcastle couldn't stop the grin, and he reflected briefly on how quickly the ex-con moved from almost sullen to almost jovial. "It was a no exchanges, no refunds type of a deal, kiddo, so keep unpackin'. But it's stupid to make a bunch of trips back and forth across town; we can use the truck and get it all at once."

McCormick looked back at him warily. "We?"

The judge took a second to reply. He thought he might get some kind of mental whiplash, or something, trying to keep up with this kid's moods. "Yeah, McCormick, _we_. I am the one who asked you to come here, after all." He ignored the young man's not quite inaudible, "Yeah, you _asked_, all right," and continued his thought. "I'm offering to help you move, kid; if I were you, I'd just say, 'okay, thanks'."

McCormick narrowed his eyes at Hardcastle. "Okay."

Hardcastle grinned again; this one would definitely keep him on his toes. He turned back toward the door. "Come on over to the house after you get your stuff put away, McCormick; I'll have dinner ready. And, you won't have to thank me, cuz you're gonna do the dishes." He heard the quiet laughter as he closed the door behind him.

**0000000000**

_**Six months ago…**_

"It was kind of a weird case, Judge," McCormick said between bites of his sandwich. "Maybe you finally understand now that your precious system is just a little bit jacked up."

Hardcastle raised an eyebrow speculatively. "Things worked out okay."

"Not sure Eric Goodburn would see it that way," McCormick replied dryly.

"No," the judge admitted slowly, "I don't guess he would. But he got caught up in these things because of his own actions. If he hadn't been on his way to prison, the feds never would've been able to bring him into their plan. He got eight years of freedom he never would've had otherwise."

McCormick's eyes widened in surprise. "Are you tellin' me that he should be thankful for those years of freedom? Thankful to the guys that got him killed?"

A shrug. "I'm just sayin' that Goodburn wasn't exactly innocent, and that he received some special considerations others in his position haven't. It wasn't all bad for him."

McCormick stiffened in his seat. "I suppose that's what you think about me, too?" he challenged quietly.

At the sudden change in tone, Hardcastle looked up again from his own plate. "Whattaya mean?"

"We all know you think I'm 'not exactly innocent', Judge. And I guess you could consider all of this," he gestured broadly to indicate the meal, the room, the house, "'special considerations'. So you think I should be thankful to be here? And then, someday, when one of your bad guys actually manages to take me out, your answer is gonna be 'it wasn't all bad'?"

The judge shook his head slightly. How had he managed to walk into this? Anticipating the McCormick mood swings was an art he still hadn't quite mastered. He met the young man's steady gaze, and tried to lighten the mood. "No one's gonna take you out, kiddo. The Lone Ranger always takes care of Tonto." But it didn't take long to realize that McCormick would not be so easily sidestepped. Hardcastle tried not to sigh as he attempted to formulate an answer.

"I think you're comparing apples and oranges, kid," he finally began tentatively, "and worse, you're askin' me to do it, too. Eric Goodburn didn't make a little mistake, you know, McCormick; he killed a cop. He _was_ lucky that someone was willing to offer him some sort of a break, because he sure as hell wasn't gonna come up with something on his own."

Hardcastle was gaining speed now. "But I think the biggest difference might be what the system had to offer in return. It really is all about the 'special considerations', and for Goodburn that meant it was all about him. He got his freedom—and whatever else the feds gave him—and _then_ he decided to help out. But _you_…" He paused for a moment to ensure he had the kid's attention, then continued, "you made a different sort of deal. The consideration you wanted was the chance to catch a murderer. All this," he mimicked McCormick's earlier gesture around the room, "this is just gravy."

The judge took a breath. "I'm not asking you to say this has all been a picnic in the park, McCormick, but…are you tellin' me that it _is_ all bad?" That question had been more difficult to pose than he would've expected, and he waited impatiently for the answer.

"What I'm telling you is that being offered a choice between bad and worse is not something most people are going to be thankful for, no matter what kind of considerations they get in return." He stopped suddenly, and Hardcastle saw the expression in his eyes change quickly, almost as if the young man had realized he had said more than he intended. After a moment, McCormick continued speaking. "But, no, I'm not saying it's all bad." He smiled slightly. "After all, it's not every day I get to lecture an FBI agent on the proper procedures for search and seizure, and you do make a pretty decent ham and cheddar on rye." He grabbed his sandwich and took another bite.

Hardcastle watched for another moment until he was certain all the tension had left the younger features, then offered a smile of his own. "Now you're cookin', kiddo," he answered, and turned his attention back to his own meal.

**0000000000**

_**Now…**_

"Why, you ungrateful-"

Milton Hardcastle broke off suddenly, recognizing that his temper was about to cause him to say words he didn't mean. But it was too late.

"Ungrateful?" McCormick shouted back. "I'm _ungrateful_? Oh, that's rich. Just what is it you think I'm supposed to be grateful _for_, huh? The chance to be your pool boy? The opportunity to clean your gutters? Or maybe because so many people want to kill me on a regular basis? Is that the life I'm supposed to be grateful for, Hardcastle?"

"I give you a roof over your head," Hardcastle retorted angrily, "and food to eat; I pay for repairs on your ridiculous car-"

"None of which would be necessary," McCormick interrupted, "if you paid me a reasonable salary for the work I do around here. Or, better yet, if you hadn't come along and blackmailed me into this nightmare situation in the first place."

Hardcastle felt the color drain from his face as he realized that this was more than McCormick's typical anger. As he stared into the smoldering blue eyes before him, he saw a resentment deeper than he had ever known existed.

"McCormick…" his now quiet voice trailed off. There really wasn't anything to say to the kid.

But McCormick was shaking his head angrily. "Forget it, Judge. Whatever lecture you're about to give me, I'll save you the trouble. You're right; I'm wrong. There. That's all you really wanted to say anyway, right? Okay. Consider it said."

The young man barely breathed as he continued on. "You're still the boss, Judge, because you've still got the power. I don't ever want to go back to prison, Hardcastle, and you know it. And you know just how to hang it over my head. So I'll do anything you want; I'll do your stupid chores and I'll chase your stupid bad guys. Whatever hoops you want, Hardcastle, I'll jump through them." He glared at the older man and spat out his final words. "But don't _ever_ expect me to thank you."

Hardcastle stared for several long moments at the empty space that had been Mark McCormick. How could he never have seen the bitterness McCormick carried? Oh, the kid's temper could flare—almost as quickly as his own—but never in the entire last year had the judge had reason to believe that the easy-going nature with which McCormick approached daily life was such a sham. But as surprising as McCormick's attitude was, Hardcastle was even more surprised by the chill that had suddenly settled in his heart. He hadn't been prepared for the pain.

But things could not be left like this, so he took a deep breath to steel himself against further surprises and strode toward the gatehouse.

The judge didn't knock before entering the young man's home, but McCormick didn't appear surprised. He barely looked up from his spot on the sofa. "So you takin' me in yourself, or did you send for someone?"

Hardcastle shook his head slightly. "Neither." He paused, then continued sadly, "I never knew you felt like that, kiddo."

"Then you haven't been paying attention," McCormick said shortly.

_Apparently_ _not_. With a terrible certainty, Hardcastle understood that this had gone too far; they could never go back. The chill was quickly reaching freezing temperatures, so he forced himself to speak while he still could. "You're free to go."

He saw his—friend?—look back at him in astonishment, but the ex-con didn't speak.

"I never wanted you to feel like a prisoner here," the judge continued quietly. He tried to ignore McCormick's derisive snort. "I'll fix it at the parole board; they'll let you know who you should report to."

McCormick finally rejoined the conversation. "And how long should I expect to be 'free' before you send a squad car after me to drag me back here?"

The judge shook his head again. "Not gonna happen, McCormick. We're- " he faltered briefly, then went on, "we're through here."

After a moment to examine Hardcastle closely, McCormick pushed himself up off the sofa. "Okay, then," he said as he started for the door. He didn't even pause as he passed the judge, but simply threw a flippant farewell behind him, "It's been real, Hardcase." And then he was gone.

Hardcastle turned to stand in the open doorway, and watched McCormick crossing purposefully toward the drive. _No,_ he thought, _these past twelve months may have been a lot of things, but they clearly were not real._

**0000000000**

_Not real. Not real._ Hardcastle sat up in bed with the words ringing in his head. It took him a minute to put all the pieces together.

"Just a dream," he muttered, though the weight in his heart denied the reassurance of his words. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, then sat still, his face a mask of somber reflection. He had spent quite a bit of time last night remembering the events of the day—as well as the past year—so he supposed he should've expected the thoughts to carry over into his sleep. Understanding what had led to the nocturnal visions, however, didn't make them any less disturbing.

He replayed the dream in his mind, comparing it to the argument that had actually taken place the day before. There weren't as many differences as he would've liked.

It had started off normally enough. McCormick had taken an inordinately long time with the yard work, and by the time late afternoon rolled around, he hadn't even started on the brake job on the Corvette. The kid had been putting it off for three days, and Hardcastle's patience was worn thin. When he had asked—rather loudly—that the work be done before nightfall, things had become heated.

Unlike his foresightful dream-self, the _real_ Hardcastle hadn't been able to stop the words "ungrateful convict" from flying from his mouth. McCormick really _had_ become furious, and had recited the litany of things he was not grateful for. And he also really had made reference to being blackmailed into a nightmare situation, and practically dared the older man to expect a "thank you" for his efforts, though the flesh and blood version had stopped just short of saying he only hung around to stay out of prison.

But the biggest difference between his memory and the nightmare that had covered him in cold sweat this morning was that Hardcastle had not really followed McCormick to the gatehouse. When the young man had stomped off, alternately muttering about getting ready for his date and working for Simon Legree, the judge had decided to simply let it be.

As the evening had worn on, Hardcastle had regretted not pursuing some sort of closure with his friend, and he had waited up until almost one before deciding that the kid was in no hurry to return home. And during that wait, he had spent far too much time reflecting on moments from the past that might help him understand what had been going through the young man's mind, and hoping that a resolution would be swift. But now, sitting in the soft shadows of a new day—and feeling the uncertainty of the old one—he was suddenly afraid of what that resolution might be.

With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself off the bed, knowing it was time to try to separate dream from reality once and for all.

**0000000000**

McCormick wasn't in the gatehouse, and Hardcastle's heart skipped a beat. Even with the argument, he was sure the kid would've returned home by now, and he felt a flash of concern for the young man's safety.

As he approached the garage, he was surprised to see the open door. He stepped inside, and allowed himself a moment of relief upon seeing the legs sticking out from underneath the jacked up Corvette. He stood quietly for a moment, trying to determine if this was McCormick's way of trying to make him feel even worse about what had happened yesterday.

"McCormick? What're you doin' up so early? It's not even seven."

"Wanted to get this done," came the muffled reply, "in case you wanted to use the car today."

Hardcastle stared at the feet, glad that the kid was buried underneath the car and couldn't see his look of dismay. Not even a tiny bit of anger had come from the ex-con's answer. Tired, maybe, though… "Did you get any sleep at all?"

"Yeah, sure, a few hours. I'm good."

The judge stood silent another moment. "What're you doing, anyway? Doesn't look like brakes."

"Nope. Finished that, but it was time for the oil and filter to be changed, too. I'm almost done, though."

"I never wanted you to feel like a prisoner here," Hardcastle said suddenly. He almost smiled when he heard the wrench clatter to the concrete. It took a few seconds, but then the creeper rolled slowly from beneath the car. He watched McCormick deliberately wipe his hands on the rag at his side before rising to his feet. Confused blue eyes met his.

"What are you talking about, Hardcastle?" Still such an unexpected lack of anger.

Hardcastle held his gaze. "I didn't—I _don't_—want you to feel like a prisoner."

McCormick appeared to ponder the comment carefully before shaking his head slightly. "And I never meant to make you believe that I do, Judge." He offered a small smile. "Don't make this into a thing, Hardcase, because it isn't."

The judge raised an eyebrow. "Just the typical McCormick mouth?"

"Something like that," the young man replied with a grin. "Since when do you let that bother you?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "Not sure. It was on my mind last night, is all. Just felt kinda…unfinished."

McCormick shook his head again. "Nah. The only thing unfinished around here is your oil change, so…"

"Yeah, go ahead, kid," Hardcastle answered with a laugh. "How about I fix breakfast while you finish up here? You want bacon or sausage this morning?"

"Both?" McCormick asked hopefully as he folded back down onto the creeper.

Hardcastle rolled his eyes, but he didn't object. "Okay." He turned away as the younger man pulled himself back to the oil filter, but he smiled as he heard the final muffled words drifting from under the car.

"Thanks, Judge."


End file.
